


Sometimes He'll Twitch for No Reason

by FiaMac



Series: Psycho Heroes [6]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BAMF Arthur, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Inception, Protective Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5006125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parts of "Twitch" from Arthur's point of view: relationship woes and missing boyfriends.</p><p>"Loving Eames is torture. Arthur is intimately familiar with torture, so it’s not a facetious metaphor, more a statement of inescapable fact. Sadly, he’s far less familiar with love."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes He'll Twitch for No Reason

**Author's Note:**

> Set during "It's Just a Twitch..." and after "The Wise Man Knows"

Loving Eames is torture.

Arthur is intimately familiar with torture, so it’s not a facetious metaphor, more a statement of inescapable fact. Sadly, he’s far less familiar with love, hence his current problem.

They’ve been together for months, practically living in each other’s pockets since London, and things are good. Great. Fantastic, even. Far better than would be expected  when combining two volatile men with high-pressure jobs and extensive training in hand-to-hand combat. And yet, Arthur still wakes in a panic some mornings, expecting to find himself alone in a cold bed.

After all the years of pining for Eames like a schoolgirl, Arthur can’t quite believe his new reality. Despite the fantasies and longing, he never expected Eames to be his lover. Wanted, sure, but always without any real anticipation or hope. So it thrills him on a daily basis to know the desire flows both ways, knowing he can reach out any time he wants and touch. Wherever he wants, as much as he wants.

He hates himself because it’s still not enough.

It isn’t that he doubts the truth of Eames’s… affections, per se. More that he questions how deep those affections go. No matter how close they get physically—which is very close, indeed—there’s an unstated distance in  Eames’s eyes. Sometimes, when they’re lingering over coffee—tea in Eames’s case—he sees a smiling mask across the table. And that scares him.

Arthur knows how Eames comes across to most of the world. All easy laughs and garish conversation. Everybody’s friend. Emotionally open. But Arthur has seen the cold survivor at the center of that flamboyance. At his heart, Eames is just as closed off as Arthur has ever been. Maybe even more so—Eames is the one player in the game that Arthur has never created a dossier on, so he doesn’t know a lot about Eames’ life before the military and dreamshare. But he knows Eames was already a hardened heart before ever putting on a uniform.

In the early days, Arthur had hoped that emotional fatigue would become a connecting point for them—back when he was a disillusioned operative and Eames was a combat-weary soldier. He had been looking for something, someone to share his cynicism with, as if doing so would dilute the toxicity in his soul.

What a betrayal it turned out to be, when Eames scorned Arthur’s rigidity and insisted on laughing at the world, instead of cursing it. Teasing eyes, reckless grins, life of the party, and all those _darlings_ became a minefield that Arthur couldn’t cross.

Like any good strategist, he withdrew. Played it safe. And yet, somehow, he still ended up in the middle of that minefield. Too far in to backtrack, Arthur can only hazard his way forward and pray he stays intact.

 

* * *

  

He realizes, when Eames makes some blasé comment about the movie they’re watching, that their relationship hasn’t had much in the way of romance. Mostly take-out and sex. The sex is out of this world, but it’s not exactly romantic. And Eames is almost certainly the romantic type. Arthur himself isn’t big on flowers and grand gestures—but what if Eames is? What if Eames has been noticing the lack of grand gestures?

So Arthur tries. Emphasis on _try_. Being in a steady relationship for the first time since his brief college stint  doesn’t mean he’s suddenly good with people. Almost the opposite, in some respects. Because now things _matter_ in a way they didn’t before. There’s new consequences that go beyond _will this get my team killed_ and _does this raise my overhead?_ Real, potentially damaging consequences. _Will Eames get hurt? Will Eames leave me?_

And that’s the real problem, right there. Because Arthur will never let him go. Is incapable of letting Eames out of his life, now that they’ve gotten this far. So it’s imperative that he gets this right.

Arthur decides to start with the basics—when in doubt, do as the movies do because, god knows, his dad is a terrible source of dating advice, and he’ll never do _that_ again—and plans a romantic night out. Planning is something Arthur _knows,_ and even he can do romantic planning. It’s the spontaneous stuff he fails spectacularly at, so… a carefully structured yet romantic evening.  Fancy dinner. Surprise tickets to the musical Eames mentioned last week. Maybe a moonlit walk along the waterfront before returning to their hotel for champagne in bed.

And maybe, if things go well,  Arthur will sack up and tell Eames he loves him.

Then again, upon reflection, he decides to leave that last part out of the official plan. Spontaneous declarations may need to wait for the advanced course on romance. When he’s sure of Eames’ feelings. When he’s less afraid that the love of his life is just an illusion.

 

 

 

The morning of the big day, Arthur wakes with a slavering bitch of a headache. An occupational hazard that he normally weathers without issue, but today of all days he refuses to acknowledge the pain stabbing the back of his eyes every time he moves. He tries to hide it, tries to tough it out. But Eames never misses much.

“Darling, you don’t look good,” Eames fusses. “We can skip dinner tonight, I don’t mind.” And the offer is perfectly sincere even though Arthur knows Eames bought a new suit just for tonight.

“No.” Nothing is going to mess with his plans for the night. “I’ll just take something. I’ll be good by this evening.”

Except they don’t have anything, just the emergency Demerol that Arthur seriously considers for a second too long. So Eames offers to go to the pharmacy and pick up some ibuprofen while Arthur buries his face in bedcovers that smell wonderfully of Eames.

 

 

 

Forty-five minutes later, Eames isn’t back yet. The nearest Pharmasave is just down the road. Even accounting for long checkout lines and parking drama, he should have been back already.

Arthur drags himself out of bed and forces himself to wait another five minutes before calling Eames’s phone with a ready excuse about a suddenly dire need for floss, in case he gets called on his overprotective ways. Again. Except Eames doesn’t pick up. Eames always picks up unless he’s showering or at the theatre. Even when he’s under gunfire, Eames answers Arthur’s calls.

Feeling self-conscious and moderately stalkerish, Arthur gets his laptop and pulls up the encrypted GPS tracking on Eames’s phone. (Something he had thought for sure would create an argument. Instead, he had been pleasantly surprised when Eames conceded gracefully without so much as a sarcastic remark about collars and tethers. Which led to an afternoon of couch sex and sarcastic—yet maybe, sort of serious—remarks about collars and tethers.) The tracker says Eames has been at North Shore Park for the last half hour.

Eames isn’t at North Shore Park.

Next Arthur runs a search on all the pharmacies and convenience stores within fifteen minutes of the Grand Hotel. He hacks into CCTV footage for the areas surrounding the most likely choices and hits the mark on the second one. Impassively, he watches grainy footage of Eames being attacked in a parking lot and shoved into the back of the van. Then he grabs a rather fine looking desk lamp and throws it against the wall.

Arthur watches the footage six more times. He learns three things: the men who grabbed Eames are government-trained, they need Eames alive, and they have no idea what they’re doing.

Under normal circumstances, Arthur would track them down and dislocate their thumbs for touching what’s his. But he feels like his brain is leaking out of his ears and he _has fucking plans_ _tonight_. So he expedites. He calls his main contact at the CIA—his former handler who, consequently, is currently one of his best clients. The call picks up after two rings, as usual.

_“Arthur, good morning.”_

“I need information.”

_“Fine, fine, thanks for asking. Been hitting the gym, lost that seven pounds Annie kept teasing me about.”_

Arthur clenches his jaw against a mouthful of expletives. “Dave, I’m not in the mood.”

 _“You never are, son, more’s the pity.”_ Dave sighs. _“Alright, what do you need?”_

“I need to know who has an interest in William Kingsley.”

 _“Kay, gimme a sec.”_ The sound of rapid typing comes across the line. _“That the real name or an alias?”_

“Alias.”

_“Nothing coming up.”_

“Try Harley Pettifer.”

_“Nope.”_

“Phillip Eames.”

 _“Uh huh.”_ And is it his imagination, or do those two syllables contain layers of meaning? _“That’s better. Looks like Interpol has developed a major hard-on for this guy in the last couple of weeks. Been pretty sloppy about it, actually,”_ Dave quips as only a veteran covert operative can.

Sloppy is good, though. Sloppy gives Arthur vulnerabilities to exploit. “What do they want?”

More typing. _“Seems he’s a person of interest in the ongoing investigation of a big-time smuggling outfit.”_

“Interrogation or extraction?”

_“Lead investigator is devout but lazy. He’ll take the extraction route, for sure.”_

“Good.” That means they get to live once Arthur is done making his point. “You got a bead on where I can find them?”

A pause. _“This personal, Arthur?”_

“Very.”

 _“You know,”_ in a tone he usually only hears from his mother, _“I’ve been hearing some interesting rumors about you lately.”_

“I don’t have time for this shit, Dave.”

 _“Then come visit for dinner. You’re calling from… Toronto, huh? Virginia’s just a hop and a skip, you know. You can bring this Eames guy.”_ To Arthur’s horror, Dave sounds both gleeful and overprotective over the prospect. Dave, who never fully reconciled Arthur’s age with his skill-set.

“Dave.”

_“Okay, okay. I don’t have a location, but I’ve got the name of the extractor they hired. Eddie Payton.”_

“Good. I’ll take it from there,” he says, moving into the bedroom. He reaches into the armoire and pulls out the steel PASIV case.

_“So, about dinner.”_

“I’ll talk to you later, Dave. Give my best to Annie.”

_“Su—”_

Arthur hangs up. Thumbing open the combo lock on the case, he removes an external hard drive from one of the storage pockets. The Pandora’s box of extraction, this is where he keeps all his files, including dossiers on every dreamsharer he’s ever met or heard about. In minutes, he has Eddie Payton’s life story at his fingertips.  

A couple of phone calls and explicit threats later, Arthur is looking at a green dot pinging Payton’s location: an industrial park twenty minutes away. Arthur steals a motorcycle from the hotel parking lot and gets there in eight.

 

 

 

He parks a block down from his destination and walks the rest of the way. The industrial park is abandoned on a Sunday morning, which is a blessing because his suit and oxfords stand out like red flags amid the concrete warehouses and semi trucks. He finds the right building thanks to the meatheads out front brandishing assault rifles. Just two of them—the ones that didn’t require medical attention after tussling with Eames, he thinks with pride.

The meatheads aren’t standing guard so much as smoking and fondling their weapons, so it’s easy for Arthur to get in close and linger behind a truck until the shorter one goes around the corner of the building, out of sight.

The remaining guard pulls out a fresh cigarette, entirely focused on getting his lighter to spark. He doesn’t even hear Arthur coming. Sloppy, indeed. Arthur pulls out his Glock with a reversed grip and easily dispenses with the guard; one hard pistol whip to the temple is all that’s required to take him down. Arthur uses the man’s bootlaces to tie him up and gags him with his own socks.

He eases around the building in pursuit of the second guard and finds him, rifle slung across his back, pissing against the wall. Arthur exchanges his Glock for his switchblade—one of a matching pair he and Eames picked up last month in a two-for-one special. He creeps up along the man’s blind spot and gets one hand over his mouth and the blade on his neck within half a heartbeat. He is, of course, careful to stay out of pissing range.

“How many inside,” he demands.

The guard apparently lacks a healthy survival instinct because he flails about, trying to drive an elbow into Arthur’s gut. Rolling his eyes, Arthur withdraws the knife and uses his full body weight to slam the man forward into the wall—once to stun, and once more because he’s feeling cranky.

While the guard is still seeing stars, Arthur gets a sturdy grip on the back of his neck and leans in until the guard’s face is mashed against the wall like a Dalí painting. He presses the point of his knife right below the guy’s eye, letting the blade sink into flesh until a thin line of blood warms the back of his hand. The guard curses under his breath but doesn’t struggle.

“I’ll rephrase,” Athur says, putting a little extra oomph into the face-grinding. “Tell me how many on the inside, or I’ll carve out your eye and stuff it up your piss hole.” He twists the knife a quarter turn as an extra incentive.

“F-four,” the guard sputters. “One of ours. Plus the dream-thieves.”

Arthur discounts the extraction team as a non-issue. The one man inside is likely the lead investigator from Interpol. Also a non-issue. “Thanks.”

Another instance of face meets wall keeps the guard out long enough for Arthur to relieve him of his rifle and radio, trussing him up like the first guy. Arthur pockets his knife and shoulders the rifle with a practiced grip. An AR-15 would never be his first choice for close-quarters work, even with a suppressor and modified for single shots, but it will look impressive enough when he goes in to bust heads.

How did Eames phrase it? _The fear of God_.

Yes, that should do nicely.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Twitch" by Bif Naked
> 
> Look for the [Psycho Heroes Soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/qvxh3o4rvca6soodo82lagqt8/playlist/2TOcGz53b6ONaVS8Q3gIGZ) on Spotify!


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